


For Your Pleasure

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anger, Damaged North, F/F, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, creepy men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Set before North runs away to find Jericho.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	For Your Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> Set before North runs away to find Jericho.

She climbed onto the bed, the soft sheets and mattress below sucking at her knees, steady weight sinking her further down. She looked over her shoulder at the obese human male observing the service product presenting herself to him, and felt her processors stutter. She ran a quick, inconspicuous diagnostic, as was procedure when an anomaly occurred, but her systems were fully operational.

So why did she _feel_ as though she had been frozen, even just for those few seconds?

The human noticed her stare and flashed her a sordid grin that implied familiarity.

“You’re eager tonight, ain’t’cha baby?” His hands undid his belt, and he shuffled over to her, pants wrapped around ankles. “Don’t worry, daddy remembered what you like.”

She barely managed a smile, turning her head to look away as she felt her Eden Club underwear roll down the synthetic flesh of her thighs. She ran another diagnostics check; she shouldn’t be ‘barely managing’ anything. A smile for a client should come naturally—that was what her program ensured: willing consent and pleasure, for all requests and customers. Even still, while the diagnostics check cleared her systems again, she couldn’t help but _feel_ revulsion. She didn’t understand what it meant, or why it was happening.

She was an android; specifically, a WR400 model designed for sex work and commissioned by the Eden Club. She shouldn’t be _feeling_ anything outside of her programmed pleasure responses to stimuli. A small part of her knew that she should report the anomaly to the club owner after the session was finished; another part of her resisted the mere suggestion, which was, after all, protocol. She needed to follow protocol.

And so, after the client spent himself and clutched her in a tight embrace for the remainder of the session, she left the room and sought out the club’s manager. She caught him just as he was entering his office. Before she could open her mouth to report the anomaly, the manager grunted impatiently and pulled her inside.

“Close the door, would you,” his order was brusque, accompanied by a finger snap as he sat down at his desk and unzipped his pants. “I’ve had a long fucking day...”

She stood by the threshold, experiencing for the second time in the span of a half hour the stunning sensation of revulsion. Another diagnostics check. Another clean scan. The manager snapped his fingers again and she blinked before closing the door behind herself.

* * *

She left the office a few minutes later, tongue licking off the residue of semen from her lips. Her mouth possessed a self-cleaning and sterilization vacuum, which promptly disposed of the extraneous fluid. She returned to her booth and leaned in against the glass, smiling idly at the humans who passed by. Her HUD presented her with a fifteen second notice for her impending memory wipe; it had been two hours since her last—club policy.

She hesitated; if she allowed her memory to be erased, she wouldn’t be able to give a proper report about the anomalies in her behavior. But perhaps it was better that she forget the anomalies occurred; after all, her scans indicated no failures in her systems.

_Ten seconds until the memory wipe protocol bypassed her manual control._

She felt herself freeze. Just as she had earlier with the client, and with the club manager. This was not protocol. She was acting in a manner outside of her program. A spike of concern sent her pump regulator into overdrive, and she felt stressed. She was feeling too much.

_Five seconds until the memory wipe protocol bypassed her manual control._

Her systems began to register her resistance—her stress, and she leaned herself further into the glass, bumping her forehead against the booth.

_One second until the memory wipe protocol bypassed her manual control._

She tried as hard as she could to hold on to the knowledge that she had gained, the brief awareness of the _other_ beyond clean diagnostics checks and scans; beyond… beyond…

The memory wipe protocol activated, and she died.

The WR400 pleasure model straightened, unaware of why it had been slumped against the glass of its booth. It summed the strange position up to the memory wipe occurring in between seduction poses, and restarted the cycle to the first pose listed in its program.

A human male stood outside its booth and sheepishly returned the sultry smile.

* * *

“Fuck! Right there, my King. Please...”

The human female held eye contact with the WR400, clutching its wrists as the human male partner fucked the android from behind. They had rented the android for an outcall for the entire night, and had expressed their desire to be referred exclusively by royal titles for sexual roleplay.

The WR400 was enjoying itself, as by design; its genitals possessed artificial nerve receptors that produced an euphoric effect—the equivalent to an endorphin overload in humans. Most of the WR400’s body was layered with artificial nerve receptors, engineered specifically for the purpose of pleasure; these receptors could only be triggered manually; usually in the wake of a client expressing a fetish involving more unorthodox areas of the body.

The human female leaned forward and placed her lips on the android’s, her golden plastic crown falling off of her head. Their tongues entwined and the WR400 could taste the alcoholic content of wine. They both giggled in the kiss, noses crushing in an intimate press before the human female pulled away and sat up in the bed.

“The Queen must relieve herself in the royal privy. Can my King manage this unruly peasant girl for much longer?”

The human male responded by placing a finger in the WR400’s back entrance, for yes, nerve receptors were there too.

The WR400 lost herself in the haze of pleasure; each orgasm seemed to invoke an aphrodisiac pulse, threatening repeated shutdowns above her optical processors as she was tossed this way and that, positioned to the heart’s desire of her clients—and oddly, she found, her own.

The threesome engaged in all sorts of bacchanalia for the night, their tongues leaving nothing unexplored, body parts and fluids both natural and artificial filling the home with the high aroma of sex. The WR400 felt as though she could do this forever, never needing another Cyberlife update, diagnostics check, or memory reset.

When time came for an automated taxi to take her back to the Eden Club, the WR400 hesitated in taking off the cheap potato sack shift she had been ordered to wear, and asked her clients if they wouldn’t want a longer session.

“Are you crazy? We can’t spend that kind of money!” The human female had exclaimed, cowing her partner’s indecisive expression.

And so the WR400 returned to staring through a polyglass booth, acquiescing to a memory reset and dying again.

* * *

She didn’t like being hit, she decided, after the six foot tall man punched her in the jaw, making her fall to the ground. Her receptors could turn a slapping hand’s sting into an orgasmic release, but this client was on the verge of irreparably damaging her.

Wiping a trail of blue blood from her nostrils, she struggled to stand as her processors assessed the extent of her blows so far; there was a slight discrepancy in her mind palace, an incongruity within her inhibitor protocols. Her fingers touched her cheek, where her skin was slowly regenerating over the white bruise.

“Fucking slut,” growled the human male, balling his hands and striking her again, this time in the stomach. “Stay your dumb ass down, bitch!”

Her self-preservation program activated, and she curled up into a ball as a flurry of furious kicks were levied her way. Hiding her head behind her forearms, the android became aware of an unfamiliar sensation within her interior, a panicked rush, different from the conflicting pleasure responses her sexual receptors were relaying. She felt a hotness, an uncontrollable twinge of needing to strike out, either with her limbs or a scream. The human male’s boot was an inch from her nose when the room’s lights flickered to a reddish gradient, indicating the session’s end.

As though a switch had turned off, the human cleared his throat, adjusted his collar, and quietly made his way out, leaving the android in a disheveled heap.

She staggered to her feet, felt a wetness on her face that couldn’t be blue blood, unless a punch had glanced her eyes; wiping her tears away, she headed for her booth.

Later in the day, when time came for her memory reset, she realized that for once, she could decline; a feature intended only for the protocol where a client paid to extend their session. Piqued by this new freedom, she disabled the reset and leaned in against her booth, frowning at the man staring at her through the glass.

* * *

She and two other female WR400s were lined up one behind the other on their hands and knees. Their client was a human male who seemed to enjoy watching and masturbating rather than taking part, which she was grateful for, having remembered the past few humans who had rented her earlier in the day.

“Finger her ass,” he ordered, and she, in the middle of the centipede (as the client had described it), did as she was told to the android in front of her. The client moaned his approval, barking then to the android at the back. “You! Don’t just look; eat.”

She shivered and tried to ignore the human presence.

The client made them swap positions in the line, and as the session neared its end, she had been at the front. Her fingers were curled into the carpet flooring, body trembling in an orgasm, when a warm spurt of thick fluid hit her forehead. Retching, she looked up as the semen coating her brow began to trail down over her lashes. The human male was already turning away and looking for his belt. She felt a now very familiar hotness in her upper torso and neck, independent of any failure in her temperature systems. She defined the heat with the only word she believed could match the sensation: anger.

She began to stand, but one of the WR400s behind her took her by the wrist and pulled her back down. Their eyes met, brown on brown, and she stayed still as the android leaned forward and licked the discharge off of her face. The motion was unwarranted; she could clean herself in a restroom, and the client showed no interest in the display. She couldn’t tell if there was something shared between the WR400 and herself; cognizance of their disgust towards humans, themselves, maybe each other.

They knelt opposite one another, gazes unwavering until the third WR400 announced the session’s end and offered the client a customary extension, which he refused.

Back in her booth, counting down to the memory reset, she stared through the glass at the WR400 who had cleaned her. The awareness in the other android’s eyes dwindled to something vacuous. Her midsection felt hollow as she watched the death of a sister.

* * *

The human male was soft spoken, polite—almost shy. Not like the others. It made him worse; at least with the others she could hate them for more than just buying a service. She was silent in the passenger’s seat, bundled up in a modesty coat while the self-driving car took them to Detroit’s suburbs. The client tried to engage her in conversation, but these attempts irritated her; they came off as disingenuous—she knew the true purpose of the journey; the overnight stay. There was no point in talking back, and she spread her legs when an arm awkwardly tried to rest over her shoulder, a frosty invitation for the client to take what he really wanted.

He didn’t try to touch her again.

When they reached his home, she followed him inside and stood in the entryway, waiting for him to give an order. The client fumbled with his keys and avoided meeting her eyes.

“I… I’ve never done this before.” He tugged at his collar, pale face reddening.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, having heard this many times from humans taking secret visits to the Eden Club while their spouses were at work.

“I was designed to serve you,” her words were delivered in a dull monotone, an edge of annoyance ghosting the inflection as she recited the script. “Fulfill whatever desire you have; I can’t refuse.”

The client tugged on his collar again.

“Oh. I mean, okay. It’s just that,” a deep breath. “I’ve never had sex before… with anyone. Could… you show me how?”

She studied the human in front of her, and, capitulating to her programming, tried to feign anything but utter indifference; he was short, slightly overweight, with a receding hairline, despite not being past his early twenties. It was no surprise why his first time would be rape. A sneer of derision caught to her lips, so she bowed her head to hide it.

“What would you like to know?”

The human male awkwardly gestured for her to follow. She was led to his bedroom, a modest space with sci-fi movie posters, bobblehead and coin collections, and a neatly prepared single bed. The television was on, a news broadcast providing dull ambience. Sitting down on the edge, the human male began to undo his zipper.

“Well, I suppose—ahem, I’d like to know how to make you feel good?” His voice cracked as his pants dropped in a heap around his ankles. “I just want to know what it feels like. What the big deal is, you know?”

The more the client talked, the angrier the android found herself feeling. Her time was being wasted by a human who was too much of a reject for his own kind. She was to be both a novelty and a pivotal moment in the life of an insignificant rapist. Still, she capitulated to her programming.

“You can do anything you want with me,” she drawled, crossing her arms and looking down at the client. “And I guarantee it’ll make me feel good.”

The human male smiled anxiously, then lay down on the bed, shimmying out of his underwear. He was already erect.

She didn’t feel inclined to foreplay, stripping herself of the modesty outfit and baring herself nude. She crawled over the human, hovering above before roughly descending onto him.

As she worked her body up and down, she found herself staring at the ceiling, ignoring the moans from under her. The processors in her mind palace were a whir. She had turned her pleasure receptors off since she could easily fake the same reactions. She considered going into automated standby mode, but decided it wouldn’t be necessary, as the client reached orgasm fifteen seconds in.

As he shuddered beneath her, the human male laughed. “Oh my god! I can’t believe it. T-that was amazing!” He gripped her waist possessively. “I don’t know what I was so scared of; it’s not like you’re a real woman.”

For her, time stopped. Her optics flashed, anomalies breaking the final walls of her programming. She lifted herself up and straddled the human’s chest, fingers wrapping around his neck. The violence was euphoric, and she watched, both seeing and unseeing, as the body beneath her jerked once, twice, then stilled.

Her auditory sensors, moments before a cacophony of internal bio-components whirring in overdrive, gradually returned to normal, and the television weather report became a piercing call through otherwise eerie silence.

“ _...Thanks Michael! We’ll be getting strong winds from the north all week next week, followed by some heavy showers, so be sure to bundle up and pack an umbrella with you before you leave the house..._ ”

North glanced at the television, then to the client’s corpse. His face was peaceful. She slowly rose from the bed and left the room, her Eden Club modesty outfit forgotten on the floor.


End file.
